


Déjà Vu

by DreamLaJolla



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, California, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Slow Burn, Slow To Update, VidCon YouTube Convention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29918226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamLaJolla/pseuds/DreamLaJolla
Summary: George finds himself in America because of Vidcon. Things are foreign and different, but perhaps the biggest change he needs to get used to is the fact that Dream plans to reveal his face to the public.And of course, to George, too.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 53





	Déjà Vu

“Dream? _"_

The City is alive. It’s almost like it never sleeps. Different lights, colours spanning anywhere from a sharp yellow to a crisp white shine. It _burns_ , and for a moment he finds himself needing to look away, glancing down lower. There are cars racing around, moving lights traveling diagonally. They’re softer lights. He chooses to indulge in them instead.

Even if it’s only momentarily, before he finds himself staring forwards again. 

His phone lays flat on two genius world record books. He’s sitting at his desk, legs crossed ever so slightly. It’s his normal little set up, the one he’s always felt comfortable in. There’s no reason to _not_ slouch, to not lean his head against his gaming chair and close his eyes.

Because for once they weren’t filming, _weren’t_ streaming—they’re about as alone as two people with millions of subscribers can be. 

He has the curtains open. Normally they’re closed, considering he tends to get distracted—normally he doesn’t let light shine into his room. Although that hasn’t really changed, the sky is dark— _it’s The City that gives it light._

Staring out into the lit-up City of London, he shifts in his chair ever so slightly. It’s a breath-taking sight, but it’s something he’s been thinking about leaving behind.

After all, The City is crowded—the air _polluted_. He remembers meeting up with Wilbur, back when Dream convinced them to prank fans. Wilbur couldn’t stop scrunching up his noise whenever he mentioned London, a look of pure disgust on his face.

George didn’t love London either, but it was home. He’s never thought too seriously about the concept of home—used to laugh when he seen fan theories about Tommy’s true home on the SMP pop up on his twitter feed.

It was fun piecing a story together with everyone—being able to be a part of something that big. 

The concept of _home_ was ridiculous to him. The fact that some people believed home was with another person—it’d be like him saying his home was where ever _Dream_ was, because of how their friendship had always been.

It sounded too cheesy to him—made him scrunch up his own nose in disgust. 

It’s nearing one in the morning, the soft hum of electricity filling his room. It’s hard to get away from it. Countless device’s on at one time, lamps turned on to avoid fully blinding himself. His room was _never_ truly silent, he doubted it’d ever be truly silent, too. 

They aren’t streaming, or being a part of anyone else’s streams for the night. It’s nice having a day off, or at least he thinks so. He loves being in front of the camera as much as the next person, but sometimes it’s _overwhelming_ —sometimes the people watching him are overwhelming.

He’s gotten used to it, gotten used to weird people in his chat. They make fun of it behind closed doors, as easily as they make fun of anything else.

It’s stage fright—or something alike it. The _paranoid_ thought of something about to go wrong, the intensity of clicking the live button he’s grown a hate-love relationship with.

He can’t imagine how people like Tubbo stream nearly every single day—he’s pretty sure he’d be exhausted. Get distracted too quickly.

Actually, before George had gotten distracted, he was packing up his needed belongings for the newest adventure he’d be embarking on. A trip to _California_ —a plane ride to America. Vidcon. The thought terrified him, the fact that he was popular enough to get an invitation. He doesn’t know whether or not he deserves it.

He’s put hard work and effort into his content, sure, but he’s always felt a little bit guilty—even when there’s no reason for it.

Inevitably George got distracted, though. The packing stopping almost instantly because of it. Dream being the only true reason to that.

Dream being the _world’s_ biggest distraction.

He supposes he should use _Clay_ , after all they’ve been friends for so long. There isn’t a reason not to say Clay—he just forgets, especially since Dream just fits the other so well. It’s natural—it’s comfortable, a territory they’ve already crossed together. 

Maybe George is over-thinking. It wouldn’t surprise him. He’s always had an imaginative mind, the kind that led him into _awkward_ situations—It wouldn’t surprise him if he was too awkward, messing something up because of it. Something good. Like his friendship with Dream.

With Clay. 

The other just hums in acknowledgement to what he’s said. George wonders whether or not he should actually continue the thought he was having out loud. 

It’s not worth bothering him over, is it? They’re just comfortable right now, there’s no reason to talk about work—it’s easy enough to just ask Dream how his day has been, just as easy to go and tell him to _sleep_ , even if it should only be about eight there. 

But while he’s awkward in most situations, he’s also a good friend, the type that wants to make sure Clay— _Dream_ —is comfortable in whatever situation he puts himself in. After all, they suffer together.

Editing, packing up their belongings—trips to another country, or just across it—they’re in this together. As friends.

As _colleges_. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, his voice higher than usual—it’s _annoying_ , he’s sure dream notices it right away. He’s almost embarrassed, quickly managing to clear his throat. It’s about as silent as it can possibly be done—he doesn’t want to make a scene, after all—before speaking again.

“I mean, you _shouldn’t_ feel pressured to do something like this. If you’re not comfortable—.” He continues, blurting the word’s out. The only thing that successfully stops him is dream wheezing. It’s _soft_ , not as loud as what’s normally seen on streams or recorded videos—It’s personal, attacking George in a way he’s never been attacked before.

“ _George_.” Dream says—Clay says, and George finds himself freezing again, staring out the window with hopes of distracting himself. It doesn’t work, though. The racing cars aren’t enough to put his mind at ease—The City’s lights aren’t bright enough to fully blind him.

He’s stuck. Yet he _wouldn’t_ want it any other way.

“I want to do a face reveal. Vidcon is the perfect place to do it. I’ll blend right in if I’m wearing my merch, and we can make it into some shitty 2012 vlog—.” He says, his voice as passionate as ever. 

Truthfully, George is just terrified. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to know what’s behind the mask, metaphorically speaking. In general, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to know what _Dream_ looks like.

To fully accept that there’s no difference between Clay and Dream, since they’re the same person, one in a whole. The idea _scares_ him. It’s not the type of fear one has when playing a horror game, he hasn’t screamed out loud because of it—it’s just the suspense.

Having to _wait_. Having to know that after he sees Clay, he can’t just go _back_ —can’t pretend it never happened. Not only are they going to see each other in person, they’re going to have to _touch_ —George is going to have to _speak_.

Shifting in his chair, he finds the black leather cool to the touch—it sends shivers up his spine when he presses his back against the cushion. Yet, he can’t quite decide if that’s truly the chair’s fault, or if he’s just gone and gotten himself so _nervous_ that his own body can’t even be bothered to do anything but freeze.

And maybe it sounds _insane_ —really, it _probably_ does sound _insane_ —but he doesn’t know what Clay looks like, doesn’t want to. And he doesn’t understand _why_.

It’s not like he’d ever leave Dream, not like he’d walk away because of a face reveal—he’s there for the long run.

Dream—well, _Dream_ is his friend. The kind of friend he can play Minecraft with even when they aren’t streaming, the kind of friend he doesn’t always feel awkward around. 

He’s everything and _anything_ —time and time again George is amazed by him, even if it’s for painfully stupid reasons. He can’t help but stare in awe at his computer screen during every _Manhunt_ , can’t help but wonder what Dream will do next in any situation.

He’s an enigma. He’s quite _literally_ a dream.

But Clay is different. Clay isn’t green and white, even if they’ve already determined that the color George actually sees is a _piss_ yellow—which really, it doesn’t change anything in his mind, Dream is still a little pissbaby—he’s _real_.

He _moves_.

He remembers seeing Clay move for the first time—his hand forming into a fist, his signature smile on a thick piece of board paper in front of him. George remembers it all too well—the fear in his eyes as Clay _moved_. 

George knew it was coming—Dream had told him what’d happen, how he wasn’t planning to actually do a face reveal, just troll the community a bit. Yet, _knowing_ what was happening didn’t stop him from having a mini-heart attack. 

No longer was Dream just _someone_ behind a screen—he was a real person, real and touchable. He had a face, had a life of his own—It was terrifying to think of Dream like that. 

He knew it was stupid, thinking dream couldn’t move. Really, it wasn’t that he _didn’t_ think Dream could move—he knew he _could_ move, he’s heard it before. Seeing it is a different story, it’s _terrifying_ —he can only imagine how he’ll freeze up when he sees Dream’s face.

When he looks Clay in his eyes, familiar green eyes that he’s seen before in old childhood photos. When he has to force a _conversation_. Normally, conversation just came easily between the two of them. They’ve been friends for years, after all. There was no reason for uncomfortable awkward pauses.

No, when they were both silent, the silence was always _comfortable_ —something George clung to. Not often did he feel comfortable in shared silence, but Dream—and Sapnap of course—had successfully gotten him to rarely even think about their shared silence.

It just came _naturally_.

Speaking in person would not.

What if it became _awkward_? What if Clay seen something he didn’t like, what if he didn’t want to be friends anymore? His face reveal would blow up—would that leave him falling behind, reaching out with a _cautious_ yet silent call? 

Would Dream be too busy to talk? Would Sapnap stop speaking to him, _too_? He wasn’t jealous—or at least, he was sure he wasn’t. He wanted _Dream_ to succeed. Wanted _Clay_ to be famous. He just... didn’t want to lose a close friend, was that too much to ask for? 

Seeing him move... well, it only made George realize the inevitable is quickly _approaching_ , that soon he wouldn’t be able to cower away from the fact that Clay and Dream are the same person. That inevitably, when Dream face reveals—Clay becomes the person he’s grown to adore over the years.

The person he’s been _memorized_ with. The person who’s inspired him time and time again.

Can he handle that? Can he _live_ with that?

“You’ve got your ticket, right?” Dream’s voice rings’ out, soothing George’s ears. For a moment he’s pulled away from his own thoughts, glancing towards the bright City. The very same City he’d soon be leaving behind. It wasn’t _permanent_ , but it was good enough for him—a taste of _freedom_.

A place away from dry lungs, pollution filled headaches and his own worries—or at least, he hoped so.

“Yeah. Thank you, by the way.” He says, although he’s probably thanked Dream about half a dozen times already. “You didn’t need to buy my ticket—I could have bought my ticket, I mean.” He adds, gently implying that Dream didn’t need to waste his money. 

He’s pretty sure he bought Sapnap a ticket, too.

It was insane, he figured, the fact that American’s could fly three hours from their home State and not even enter a new Country—that they could fly to different States as if they were Countries. From what he understood, Dream himself had at very least a _five hour_ flight to get to Anaheim, California.

_Americans_ , he thought, _and their huge States_ _scared him_. He’s sure visiting the whole Country would take him years. Maybe he could convince Dream to come along with him on that adventure.

“Yeah. But it wasn’t _expensive_.” Dream says, shrugging it off nonchalantly. 

A soft sigh escaped George’s lips as he glanced down towards his floor. Clothes were sprawled across everywhere, all of them being clean. He was in the process of refolding them so they’d all fit in his suitcase.

“Have you started packing, yet?” He asks, and instantly can hear Dream wheeze. He almost rolls his eyes, already knowing the answer. 

Then again, he’s left packing to the last minute, too. Too nervous not to, really. He’d be leaving for the airport today at around six in the morning. Already not planning on getting much sleep, he decided now was as good of a time as ever to pack up his belongings.

“No. I should— _jeez_ , probably do that, huh? Guess I got a little too excited.” Dream admits, and George can hear him lean further back into his gaming chair. The way the leather rubs against his arms, the way the chair itself creaks. 

Excited. He was excited, too. Yet, mostly nervous. God, his nerves were basically shot. _Tomorrow_... well, he might not see Dream Tomorrow, but the next day it’d almost be guaranteed—and that was scary. God, it was _terrifying_.

“I’m bringing my mic down to the floor, then. That way I can finish packing up my thing’s.” George says, standing up abruptly before messing with his set up. He didn’t need it, after all. Not for a few days, at least—he just needed a camera and a few batteries, so it didn’t matter if his whole set up was a mess by the time he came _home_. 

“You’re bringing your mic down?” Dream spoke, almost in a teasing manner. That successfully earns a real eye roll from George, who shook his head as he stared out the window, blindly pulling on wires. 

“I’m bringing my mic down.” He repeats, Dream snorts—there’s rustling in the background, he can hear it through his headset. He figures, momentarily, that Dream’s copying him from _miles_ away—and with that he finds comfort, because maybe tomorrow when he finally sees Dream and Sapnap in person for the first time, things won’t change.

* * *

The world is nauseating.

The ground below him slowly slipping away. 

He feels like he’s floating. Like his feet have left the ground. 

They haven’t. He’s sure of it. Yet he feels like he’s floating, feels like he’s about to curl over and puke.

It feels wrong. Feels like some form of insanity. 

It’s abnormal—he doesn’t like it, his head already spinning as he takes a few more steps forward.

Steps forward. 

Forward. 

Behind him he can hear his luggage. 

The black plastic wheels rattling against the floor, echoing out onto the white walls surrounding him. 

Rattling, _echoing_ , Rattling. 

It’s an empty sound, the type of sound that’s bound to drive him mad. He can’t quite be bothered to do anything about it yet, though. 

Can barely stand up straight, after all. 

His head is throbbing as he trails the black luggage bag behind him. 

He’s tired. 

Exhausted. 

Sleepy. _Sleepy_. 

The airport is empty—terrifyingly empty. It’s abandoned. 

He’s never been the only one in an airport before. 

There isn’t a single person in sight, not another body. 

Can’t fully remember getting off the plane, too. 

Doesn’t know where everyone else has gone. He just knows they’ve disappeared—or happen to be playing some ridiculous prank on him. 

He’s sure that’s it, actually. It’d make sense, after all—Airports aren’t normally empty like this. 

It’s not unsettling, though. 

The absence of people, that is.

The silence. Silence, _silence, silent._

Not scared. He’s off the plane, after all, and realistically that was the most terrifying part. 

He hates planes.

They feel dangerous—doesn’t trust them.

Out of his comfort zone. Too high up.

Too fast, too many things could go wrong. He doesn’t like them, hates them—wouldn’t go on one unless it was for something important.

For someone _special_.

But the plane ride is over.

He’s safe, and now all he needs to do is reach his cab. 

Safe, _safe and sound._

The hallway goes on for what feels like forever. 

His feet grow tired, his legs nearly falling out from underneath him. 

Not overreacting this time around—not getting into his own head, convincing himself it’s been forever.

He glances towards white walls, spotting a simple circular clock.

It’s white. It’s simple. There’s no numbers, only ticks. 

He has always been able to tell time, or at least for as long as he could remember. It’s easy.

Simple.

He likes clocks like this one—no colors to focus on, just ticks. 

Doesn’t like this clock, though.

Hands spin rapidly, makes his head hurt. 

They spin counter-clock wise, and for a moment he can feel himself growing even more nauseous before he looks away. 

The world is spinning. 

He feels like he’s floating. 

No, he is floating.

They’ve left the ground—he’s left the ground.

He’s in the sky, floating. 

Floating, _floating—soaring_. 

His luggage spills out, shirts and pants floating around him.

In front of him.

Shirts and pants and other things in front of him, clogging up his view. 

He swats at them as he continues to float, getting a better view at the end of the hallway he’s been walking down. 

He can see the end of the hallway. Can see the empty abandoned elevator on the other side. 

The elevator light’s flash a soft glowing color. Might be red—George doesn’t really know. Could be green. Or brown.

Probably red. It’s like an exit sign. _Probably red._

Doors wide open.

Inviting. Welcoming. _Home_. 

He begins to think this is all some _sporadic_ —

* * *

When George wakes up, he feels nauseous. 

His head is pounding and his vision is strained—but that's _normal_ after sleeping away so many hours. Strangely enough he's also hungry, and a little too _dehydrated_ for his own liking.

He could definitely go for a warm mug of tea right around now—maybe a London fog, although he doesn't know anywhere in California that might make them.

Or if California knows what a London fog might even be in general.

Maybe he should have asked more about that _Yesterday_ when Dream was still chatting away with him. Then again, he doesn't really take Dream as the type to drink tea.

Coffee is simple, could be an option, too. Yet it sounds gross. He's never quite gotten along with coffee—the flavor too bitter, the sugar just enhancing a flavor that already tasted a little too burnt. 

And besides, his head is throbbing. He's sure caffeine wouldn't help him out much in a _situation_ like this. 

He's never been great with plane rides. Or most heights in general. He can stand things like elevators and second story buildings. The idea of being in the air without some sort of thing that could save him if everything went to shit—well, that terrifies him. 

The plane has landed, though—he slept the whole ride to America. Thank God for that, too, considering he had a window seat. Dream really was a bastard.

Not that he minded much—after all, Dream bought the ticket with his own money. It was like some sort of strange gift—and George was _thankful_. 

Thankful and about to throw up a breakfast he surely didn't have. 

Mixing that with the starving feeling in his stomach really wasn't ideal.

Standing up, he quickly stumbled before grabbing his luggage bag from above him. He didn't bother bringing more than one bag—didn't need to. 

He had a weeks worth of clothes and a camera, and truthfully that was all he needed. Other than his wallet and phone of course—he had that, too. In his pocket, safe and sound.

Getting off the plane was his first priority—his second would be finding food, and maybe then he'd check into his Hotel.

Pulling his phone out of his back pocket he quickly takes it off of airplane mode, flinching ever so slightly when he realizes what time it is. 

Six PM stares back at him like some sort of demonic figure—glaring him down with angry eyes. George already knew he'd be arriving much later than Dream and Sapnap, but _crap_. 

Shaking his head he turns his phone off, pocketing it before heading off the plane—attempting to find a way out of the Airport.

\- 

There's a McDonald's in the Airport. A _McDonald's_ in the _Airport_. Obviously, it's not quite what George wanted, or needed—yet soon enough he finds a medium Iced tea in his hand and it's good enough.

Except for the fact that it's sugary, and not really tea at all. More like a juice then anything else, really. Sweet, and without ice is quickly heating up in the warm temperature of California. It's not bad. It's actually quite good, minus the fact it's not what he's craving—it's something he can settle for.

Like everything else he seems to settle for.

Sitting down in the Airport McDonalds is strange—the table's are all circular, the chairs are all worn in and a little to high to get on comfortably. He's sure someone a little taller would have no problem with that, but surely children are struggling, _right_?

Except he can't really see any children struggling with sitting down in their own obnoxiously sized chairs—and for a split second he finds himself wanting to shrivel up and shrink away. _Disappear_ , if only for a moment. 

His phone rings.

Or, buzzes, really. It's placed on the strangely circular table, the volume turned off—he quickly sets down his drink before reaching for it with his left hand, seeing just who's calling him.

"Hello?" He says, after answering the call. It's silent for a moment before someone responds.

" _Jeez_ , no, how are you Sapnap? How'd the plane ride go Sapnap?" A familar voice rings out and all too quickly George finds himself snorting, picking up his drink with his non-dominant hand. He takes a sip before speaking. It's warm. Kind of hot, actually—he frowns, setting the drink down with a disgusted look. Hot Sugar—just as gross as coffee, really. 

"Hello Sapnap. How was the plane ride, Sapnap?" He jokingly says back, glancing toward's the giant windows that fill every hall in the Airport. Outside it's still bright, the sun still shining—by six in London the sun would be nearly setting.

"Doesn't fucking matter, does it? We should meet up somewhere—like, I don't know, a waffle house?" Sapnap says, chuckling every now and then. He's obviously in a good mood—maybe even slept a few hours, too. George can't even let out a yawn after sleeping for as long as he did.

Yet that doesn't mean he couldn't fall asleep again. Another nap might be nice, _actually_.

" _Actually_ , where the hell are you? You've been _like_ , not responding to any of my texts all day." Sapnap yawns out—definitely been sleeping, then, George thinks.

"Just got off the plane, still at the Airport." He hums out, jumping off the overly large chair before dumping his Iced tea into the garbage. Almost immediately after he grabs his luggage bag, letting it drag behind him as he begins to try and find an exit out of _no-mans_ _land_. 

"Oh." Sapnap says, a hint of surprise in his voice. George can hear keys shaking, the sound of a car engine starting and the sound of a door closing. "Thought you were at the hotel already. I've been sight seeing all day—haven't seen Dream yet."

"I don't think Dream's texted me." George admits. "Haven't really checked yet, though—did you know they have a McDonald's in John Wayne Airport? Oh, and a pizza place too, apparently." George says, slowing down as he passes by the small restaurant.

He gawks, wondering just how big this place happens to be before speeding up once again.

"Do you need a ride? I can come pick you up." Sapnap offers, and George can hear as their call is put on bluetooth, a robotic woman's voice errupting from Sapnap's speakers. It's gone just as soon as it starts, though, and George can barely catch a word of what she says.

"And _uh_ , if you're hungry, we can go somewhere? Either way, we should—because I'm _fucking_ starving." Sapnap adds, and George swears he can hear the other's stomach growl. 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight nod. "Sure. Uh, where should I come out of, then? I mean, what end of the building." 

"Doesn't matter," Sapnap says. "What's closest?" 

* * *

The hotel is _huge_. 

Nearly as big as the Airport had been, if not the same size. It’s insane, George thinks, the fact that a single Airport was that big.

He’s pretty sure that isn’t even the biggest hotel in California, let alone _America_. To him it’s insanity, nothing needs to be that big—but when he imagines the number of planes that must land there each and every day, it starts to add up.

Still, the McDonalds and other fast-food restaurants seemed a little bit extreme. Especially when no less than a block away had been yet another McDonald’s, as well as several other fast-food restaurants.

It’s dark outside now, nearing eight PM. He was able to watch the sun set well eating pancakes, listening to Sapnap ramble on about how Bad and Skeppy had apparently invited him out for dinner, _too_.

And how it felt like he was about to go out to dinner with his parents, so he quickly and respectfully declined. 

From where he stands, he can see a giant water fountain—and it’s _glowing_. The water is glowing. Soft mystifying purples shooting up and out of the ground. 

It’s like something out of a video game. Like something out of a story. It’s real, he knows that much, but between the huge hotel in front of him and the light show he doesn’t really know how to react.

For all he knows he could still be dreaming, still sleeping away on the plane—although surely someone would have shaken him awake by now. 

It’s probably a result of colorful _LEDs_ , but it’s beautiful and memorizing either way. 

The palm trees are really something else, too. He’s never seen something like this up close and personal before. He’ll be seeing cacti next, he thinks, although that’s probably as probable as finding his hotel room without getting lost. 

Everything about this is strange and foreign.

America is strange and foreign.

The trees have LEDs below them, too. Soft yellow ones. They highlight their features beautifully, and George wonders what it’d look like tomorrow during the daylight.

Wonders what a sunrise in California looks like.

Dinner was simple.

Was _nice._

George doesn’t find himself short of conversation topics. From Vidcon to Bad and Skeppy finally meeting, to potential video ideas and opportunities, he finds himself fitting into the situation normally. They even film a quick segment of a Vlog that Sapnap plans to release just after Dream face reveals. 

He doesn’t blank, doesn’t lose himself. It’s normal. It’s familiar. It’s like he’s done this before—Sapnap doesn’t let him eat himself up.

And, _thankfully_ enough, the pancakes he ordered happened to be good enough, too. As good as any thirteen-hour late breakfast could be.

Sapnap even drives him back to the hotel—Hilton Anaheim hotel. Even offers to help him bring his stuff to his room, although George declines that offer.

If only to stare at the water fountain and surrounding area for a few more minutes by himself.

It’s _beautiful_. He can’t even begin to imagine what his room looks like, let alone what it costs—he can’t believe he let Dream pick the hotel they were staying at.

The rooms probably huge. Sapnap mentioned how there was a pool—and a Spa, too. _A_ _Spa_. That they could _visit_. It sounded weird, especially considering he’s never been to a spa before.

Although it’d be something he’d have to check out, maybe after he got himself situated in his room. He could probably convince Sapnap to join him—and maybe he could even figure out whether or not Dream was even in California yet.

Maybe he’ll even be able to scold Dream on how expensive their rooms are. He’s sure his credit card will be able to handle it, but still—a hotel like this must have had ridiculous pricing. 

At least he’s been saving up for a while. Surely it can’t be more than a few hundred pounds—maybe three hundred at most. He hopes it’s not more than three hundred pounds, because to him, three hundred pounds was already _ridiculous_.

At least the view would be worth it. And, if he was lucky, Dream booked him a floor higher up—one where he could see the whole City, the light’s rushing past.

It’d be a _familiar_ view, he thinks, even if it’s still foreign and strange.

Letting out a small sigh he looks towards the hotel’s entrance, heading inside with a small smile pressed against his lips.

It’s about as extravagant as outside happened to be. With red carpets sprawled across the floor and small statues placed everywhere, it looks far too put together.

There’s no glowing LEDs, but there’s a strange little water table—with lemons and cucumbers cut up in the already existing water dispenser. There’re plastic solo cups beside the water dispenser, and he imagines those must be _complimentary_. 

As he approaches the check-in counter, he finds it surprisingly dead—thank god for that, for the fact he doesn’t have to wait in a long outrageous line. 

The lady at the counter is sat down, working on what probably is some sort of paperwork. Her hair is stark red, although George can’t see much of anything else. She’s got strangely long hair, though—it’s down, goes past her shoulders, and George isn’t quite sure as to where it stops.

When George approaches, he clears his throat, instantly getting her attention before offering a small smile.

She looks startled before smiling back—and George can see bright blue eyes and stark red lipstick.

“Hi. I’m George Davidson. I’m here to pay for my room and get a keycard.” He begins, pulling out his wallet. The leather is warm, just as warm as it had been outside—California in general was warm. It’s nice, but he can’t help but wonder how warm it’s going to be in the morning.

And whether or not he made a mistake by packing mostly sweaters.

“My room was booked by someone by the name Clay _—_.” He’s cut off before he can finish that sentence, the lady quickly jumping up to get a keycard.

“No worries _darlin_ ’!” Her accent is thick, Southwestern and intensely American. It might be Texan, although George isn’t sure—it doesn’t sound like Sapnap’s accent, and he honestly hasn’t been able to put much thought into whether or not Sapnap has a thick Texan accent or not.

“Clay already paid for your room, dear, but you can have your keycard right here! Top floor, one person Suite!” She says, putting the card into a paper slip before sliding it over the counter.

George grabs it, a confused look pressed against his face. “Oh— _uhm_ , thank you, _Ms_..” He pauses, quickly checking her name tag. “Shelly. Thank you, Ms. Shelly.” He says, nodding ever so slightly.

“No problem! Feel free to call if anything’s not to your liking, Mr. Davidson! Room service is 24 hours, by the way!” She says, almost as if she’s singing the words out. George nods, offers another polite smile before gripping onto his luggage bag, heading towards the nearest elevator.

He whips out his phone as well, quickly clicking on the Discord icon. Once the app opens, he clicks onto his private messages with Dream, debating whether or not he should chew him out.

He really needs to stop spending his money like this—George feels like he needs to repay him, somehow.

Maybe he can bring him and Sapnap to dinner tomorrow. Yeah, _surely_ that’s a good start—or just forward Dream whatever his room happened to cost. 

He presses the elevator button, watching as it leaves the tenth floor and comes down to ground level. 

When the door opens, he realizes just how familiar it is. There's something about it—although George can't quite place his finger on it. It's familiar, and that's all he really knows.

Maybe it's something about the metallic walls, or maybe it's something about the LED lights above. It could be the music, too, although he doubts it. 

For a few seconds he wonders if he should just take the stairs. After all, this elevator is too familiar to be good.

_Déjà Vu_ has never been his friend, after all. 

Yet he's sure he's being childish—Dream and Sapnap wouldn't take the stairs just because something looked familiar. It was an elevator, after all. It was bound to _look_ familiar. 

He steps into the elevator.

And someone steps in behind him.

He honestly didn’t notice anyone behind him—not that he was paying any attention. The guy is pretty silent, too, when George finds himself thinking about it. 

Blond hair and a hoodie that’s _probably_ green. George doesn’t pay much attention, though, clicking the top floor of the elevator with no real hesitation.

The blond doesn’t move, though—even as the elevator music starts to play, even as the door begins to close. He glances over, quickly recognizing the sweater. 

Dream’s _merch_. He hesitates before smiling, seeing the other man is completely invested in his phone—he quickly types out a message to send to Dream over discord. 

_I’m in the elevator with one of your fans. I wonder if they recognize me._

He hits send when the elevator jolts upwards—he nearly drops his phone, nearly jolts forward into the elevators metallic door’s.

The only thing that stops him is hands around his waist. 

The elevator jolts again, this time _downwards_ , and what has to be red emergency lights start flashing above him.

When he looks back towards the fan, he sees dark green eyes, soft blond curls and soft sun kissed skin. And freckles. Gentle _freckles_.

A discord notification rings through the small metallic box, George’s heart is racing within his chest—and he takes a leap of faith, a single word rolling off his lips naturally.

“ _Dream_?” 


End file.
